


Marked

by SharpestRose



Category: Inglourious Basterds (2009), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-29
Updated: 2011-06-29
Packaged: 2017-10-20 20:24:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/216765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestRose/pseuds/SharpestRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I heard that Utivich was a hero in the war. One of the godamned Bastards, if you can believe it," one of them says to Erik one day, when the head of the shipping and exports department makes a visit to the mailroom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marked

In 1952 he is as healed as he will ever be, physically. Some of his broken bones will always ache him in the cold, and there are scars which will never fully lose tenderness under pressure. But he's alive and fit and strong.

Erik makes his way to New York City because it seems the thing to do. It's what his matka said they'd do, to get away. Even though they didn't manage that, Erik still makes his way there in the end. He can't think of anywhere else to go. Some day he'll kill them, kill them all, but first he needs time to plan.

It's almost funny, the thought of doing that. Planning. Considering a future, a tomorrow and a tomorrow after than, and things he'd like to do with them

It's almost funny.

\--

He gets a job in the mailroom at a large publishing house. The other young men who work alongside Erik are little more than overgrown children. He finds their companionship comforting, in a distant sort of way. It's like spending his days among bright and noisy birds from a species he is related to at several removes.

"I heard that Utivich was a hero in the war. One of the godamned _Bastards_ , if you can believe it," one of them says to Erik one day, when the head of the shipping and exports department makes a visit to the mailroom. "People say the reason he's in this line of work is so he's got an excuse to go overseas. He's still hunting _them_ down. You know. Nazis. Part of a special taskforce."

"Really?" Erik asks, keeping his voice cool and disinterested, as if idle gossip means almost nothing to him.

The young man beside him shrugs. "It's what I hear."

\--

After his shift is done for the day, Erik goes upstairs and knocks on Mr Utivich's door and tries to keep his hands from trembling.

It's late, but Mr Utivich is still working, and doesn't seem all that surprised to have a visitor.

"From the mailroom, right? You here to ask if it's true? Kids like you usually are. I don't know what exactly you expect me to say -- if I really was a Secret Agent, I wouldn't be spreading it around, would I?"

Erik opens his mouth to speak, then simply shoves the sleeve of his shirt up to the elbow. Lets Mr Utivich see the number etched into the flesh of Erik's forearm.

"I want to help you," he says. Then, before Mr Utivich can respond, Erik pulls his coin from his pocket, and holds it steady in the air an inch above his palm.

"I want to help you kill them all."

\--

"Not too shabby," Aldo Raine concedes, as Erik demonstrates yet again how he can hit a bullseye with a bullet from a gun he hasn't touched. "Not too shabby at all. I guess I owe you a drink, Agent Smith."

Agent Smith is dark haired and affable and a little plump, and has apparently been the laughingstock of the CIA for years for his insistence that people like Erik existed.

"You bet him a drink that there were people with powers in the world?" Erik asks. Aldo grins and claps him on the arm.

"No siree, I bet him a drink that he'd never convince me that any possible mutation would be as useful a mind-reader could be. But I reckon controlling the gun in your enemy's hand might just be up there."

\--

Despite the round of drinks that Aldo cheerfully pays for, Erik finds that he agrees with Aldo's original stance: telepathy would, indeed, be an extremely useful power to have.

The swastikas carved into the foreheads of Nazis by the Basterds during the war make the job of tracking their owners down much easier, it's true, but Erik never feels wholly comfortable with all they represent. Marking a man's flesh to let those around him know that he is a lesser being than them feels like the first step down the same old and ugly roads that humankind has shuffled down all too recently.

It lets all those others, the humans who stare at the scars and then avert their eyes... it lets them think that they are _different_ , that there is no capability for monstrosity in their own hearts. To give the wicked a visible mark excuses all the rest from facing their own potential for evil. From keeping it in check.

So yes, a telepath would be a better thing to be than anything else that Erik can imagine. A telepath would be able to see the the swastika on all the monsters, not just on the ones the Bastards managed to catch and mark.

\--

By 1962, there are no original Bastards left on the special operations unit which they began. Aldo Raine is comfortably retired in a location nobody is certain of, and Mr Utivich is working at the publishing house without ulterior motive, and Erik is the highest-ranking officer on the small and elite squad.

Only his operatives and Agent Smith know about "the gun thing", as the latter has always referred to it.

One day, as Erik is preparing to take his men on a mission to Florida, following a lead on Schmidt's current whereabouts, he gets a call from Agent Smith, and is asked to come to Virginia for a meeting with a visiting English professor.

"He's giving a presentation on mutations," Smith says. Erik rolls his eyes.

"That's your little hobby, not mine. This is the best lead we've had in months. I'm not --"

"You have to come see McTaggert's sketches of who we're dealing with on the Hellfire Club assignment, Erik," Smith says, and there's something in his voice that makes Erik pay attention.

\--

"That's Schmidt," Erik says, staring at the careful pencil lines of the face on the paper. Schmidt hasn't aged a day.

"And these are who he was with," Smith goes on, handing two more sketches over as they walk the long hall toward the conference room. The other drawings would be far more boggling than that of Schmidt, to anyone but Erik. But even a woman made of diamond and a devil in a puff of smoke hardly register, compared to the proof that Schmidt still exists in the world, as unchanging as a nightmare.

"Lehnsherr? Really? I didn't know Black Ops had time for taking in academic briefings," Moira snipes as she opens the door to the conference room for them. Erik has always liked her; he appreciates the number of rules she's willing to break to get the job done. He gives her a wide, shark-like smile.

"Your presence, as always, is reason enough to involve Special Forces, Miss McTaggert," he counters. He knows from the glare she gives him that there will be at least one punch to his kidneys on the sparring mats in their future. Oh well, he's never been afraid of pain.

"This is Professor Charles Xavier," Moira says. "Our visiting expert."

The first thing Erik thinks, looking at the man, is that Professor Charles Xavier doesn't look old enough to be an expert on anything except soft beds and having enough to eat. It's not a particularly charitable thought, but Erik's never been an especially charitable person. He nods hello and takes a seat beside Smith at the back of the room, staring down at McTaggert's drawings again.

 _You might want to pay attention,_ a voice says suddenly inside Erik's head. He looks up with a start, a corner of his consciousness at the ready to lift his gun from its holster if needed. The young professor is staring at him, two fingers resting against one temple. _I might turn out to be better than you expect. Better than anything else you can imagine, even._

The silent words are teasing, almost flirtatious, and Erik can't help but bark a small laugh of surprise at them. Moira and a couple of the other suits give him puzzled looks, but Erik has never really cared what the CIA think of him and certainly doesn't care now.

 _Until I saw McTaggert's drawings ten minutes ago, I thought I was the only one,_ Erik thinks, incredulous. _And now I'm not even alone inside my own head._

The last of the expected attendees have arrived. The presentation will be starting any moment.

The young professor's mouth widens into a smile, his eyes still locked on Erik's. _Oh no, my friend. You are very far from alone._


End file.
